Cross The Commonwealth
by Johnny Valentine
Summary: Returning from Nevada, The Lone Wanderer has set his sights on the corrupt and mysterious Institute. As his feet pound upon the earth on his journey to Massachusetts, the last vault to ever open does so, and out steps the man who will change the world. But The Wanderer knows one thing that this boy doesn't. War. War never changes. (Fallout 4. Mainly original characters.)


_**Hey Guys. Been a while since I wrote something. Man it feels good to be back behind the keyboard. Not that I haven't been able to write, but I haven't had a breather in a while.  
** **Yeah, working sucks.**_

 ** _I really enjoyed writing this. I haven't done much Fallout stuff, so this was a good time! I hope it amps up a bit in the next chapter!_**

 _ **Anyway, hope you like it! This is inspired, of course, by the reveal of Fallout 4! I took poetic license here, obviously, but I hope this is close to some of the themes that will show up in the game. Now, I'm going to go a play more Witcher 3, because I have no life. Forgive the somewhat stiff style, like I said, I've not written anything decent in a long ass time.  
See ya smoothskins,  
** **JV  
**_

* * *

 _The Capital Wasteland/2290_

He wandered and remembered. It had been 13 years, an unlucky number dating back to an unlucky time. However, he realized it was not all bad. There had been pain and loss, death and guilt. It had changed him, for better or for worse he wasn't too sure. Then, there was laughter. Friendship, something he had believed to be lost forever. He hadn't deserved friendship, at least that was how it was in his mind. He was followed by the stench of corpses, and he believed that to be his only ally.

He was, of course, wrong.

* * *

The building, or more accurately, the _construct,_ loomed over him. He did not move, simply stared up at the vast door that creaked in the light, stale breeze. It was huge, a vast sheet of steel that cut this place of from the outside. But inside, he remembered, inside was...  
Well, it was indescribable.  
He turned briefly, staring out at the foggy abyss that circled. It had not changed in his time away. He doubted it would for many years to come.  
The nameless man stepped forward, up to the looming metal, and banged on it. Once, twice, three times.  
He repeated this, twice more, before waiting patiently. He would have a wait, he knew. There would be a scramble on the other side, a zooming of cameras and, naturally, a brief moment of disbelief.

He looked up, spotting a large and bulky looking lens jutting out from the huge door's edge. He waved.

What would they make of him. Surely they would know. They would have to. A hulk of steel, armor covering him from his head to his feet. The sheet of fabric tied around him and fluttering off his shoulders was an aesthetic choice, of course. He had always been melodramatic, and that had not changed in his time out in the wastes.

That would not be it though.

In paint, he had drawn it. It was not the prettiest, but it was neat, and it held meaning for him. Running over the sharp contours of the armor was a symbol.

Three numbers.

1-0-1.

"W... what the hell do you want?" The nameless man looked up as a sharp metallic voice rang out from a hidden speaker. He paused, contemplating his reply, before there was a scuffle. A commotion, on the other end of the line.

"Holy..."

"What?"

"That's him! That's... the guy. Shit, let him in."

"But sir-"

"Let him in you dipshit."

Silence. The nameless man did not exactly chuckle, but the shift in his stance suggested amusement. After another brief wait, the huge panel began to rise, groaning and echoing out across the green mists. The man watched it for a moment, before nodding to himself and bending to collect his belongings: Three guns, which he slung over his arm with leather straps, and rucksack that hung from his shoulders. He had not lowered the guns that rested at his sides, two pistols slung on leather too.

The gate finished its ascent. The nameless man entered.

Two men, outfitted in identical armor, if in a little worse condition, stood facing him. As he approached, one looked him up and down, appraising him. Despite the fact that he was covered from head to foot, the nameless man could feel this one's derision.

The other wasted no time.

He saluted. He stayed that way, before kicking out at his companion.

"Salute you retard."

The man looked at the two of them, first at the man who had dropped his rifle in his haste to salute, and the other, who had begrudgingly holstered his and done the same.

"Welcome back, Star Paladin Alpha SIR!"

The one who had not saluted, who seemed younger, shifted. The nameless one could almost see him blink in shock. Then, the younger man straightened and repeated the line.

He chuckled this time, low and quiet but deep, almost melodious. Then he saluted as well, before entering the one unquestionable fact of the wasteland. That safe space, the place without danger or hatred or violence.

The Citadel.

The Lone Wanderer had returned.

* * *

 _Very far away._

Machinery buzzed. In the dark of the vault, illumination began, slow, but then rapid as the large, overhead beams flickered into life. Dust fluttered as things moved, the impeccable, undisturbed shelter bursting into motion. Air hissed and cackled, gears hummed, yawning as their deep slumber lifted away and was replaced with sharp, metallic life. In the roots of the subterranean vault, deep in the center, a single, large expanse of a room crashed with noise. Fitted into the floor, in circles reaching out to the very edge, the space between them maybe a meter apart, were large pods, ovular in shape, their contents hidden by years of condensation. There were dozens. The pods had begun to hiss, plumes of super-cooled air streaming out of its nooks.

A door shuttered open in a far corner, and several, grotesque constructions rolled through it. It was not their actual appearance that was so disturbing. The large, cylindrical chassis and bulky appearance was almost comedic. However, in domed glass containers, wired into their metal bodies, was something that was so wrong, so not metal.  
A brain.

 _"REVIVAL PROCESS INITIATED. TIME IN STASIS, 197 YEARS, THREE DAYS, 9 HOURS AND 17 MINUTES"_

The voice came from all of the machines, and they moved around slowly, almost with trepidation, as the pods finished hissing and they opened, hatches pulling away to reveal what lay beneath.

 _"SURVIVING SUBJECTS OF VAULT 111 SOCIOLOGICAL CRYOGENE EXPERIMENTATION PROCESS: 3"_

Human beings. Each one as still as a doll, lay deep within their individual pods.

Bar three.

Coughing and spluttering. Near the north wall, a figure rolled out of a pod, their back hunched and convulsing. Vomit spattered the metal floor, followed by an intense gasping and a rugged, pained voice. Male.

"Jesus... _gasp..._ christ!"

Two more figures, each one gasping, coughing and puking as much as the first, crashed to the floor. The first man struggled to his feet, shaking slightly. He was tall, maybe thirty, handsome in a lean, wiry way, with long blonde hair dripping with sweat. He wore nothing but his underwear, and the other two were the same. From across the room, another male voice came, this one younger. It swore.

The first man moved towards the voice and came across, yes, another man. This one was barely out of adolescence, about seventeen, was leaning against the pod, breathing heavily and coughing slightly. He had leaned over and puked near other pod.

"Jack!"

The older man knelt down next to the young man and gripped his shoulder. He looked up and grinned wearily.

"That... that sucked."

The older man chuckled and, gripping Jack's hand, helped him to his feet. The young man was not, as the older man was, handsome, but he was striking. He ran his hand over black cropped hair and rubbed gunk out of his eyes, revealing deep grey irises that sparkled with keen intelligence and mischief.

"How are you, sir?"

"Stiff, sore and hungry as all hell. And I reckon we're past "Sir" here."

"Right... Chris."

They grinned at each other briefly, before another series of racking coughs echoed a few pods over. They rushed towards the sound, wobbling but still standing.

They arrived at a figure, lying against the east wall. A girl, around 18, with a bush of messy golden hair that stuck to the sweat dripping down her face.

"Holly!" Jack said and knelt down beside her. She wheezed, but shook her head and rose, brushing past Jack. She stumbled, then steadied herself on the wall. She blinked at them. She was pretty, not beautiful, but pretty, slender with deep brown eyes that widened as she stared at them.

"Jack... Doctor Willhelm... What..."

She was cut off by another wave of electronic voices.

" _SURVIVING VAULT RESIDENTS, PLEASE MAKE YOUR WAY TO THE SHOWERS IN AN ORDERLY FASHION. IF YOU HAVE ANY QUERIES, PLEASE ADDRESS THE NEAREST VAULT-TEC ROBO-BRAIN."_

"Surviving..." Doctor Willhelm trailed off, examining a nearby pod. Inside was a woman. She was nearing forty, with a tired looking face that still retained her looks. She had been beautiful.

"MOM!" Jack shoved The Doctor aside, clutching the woman's face.

"Why isn't she..." The girl, Holly, went quiet as she realized. Her face twisted and she sobbed. She didn't burst into tears, but it was obvious that she was holding back the flow."

"Wake up Mom. Please, Wake..."

He realized she wouldn't. He cried then, hard. Holly stumbled away, before finding two pods sitting next to each other. She crumpled, gone from sight, but her sobs could be heard across the room.

Chris Willhelm stood there, stunned.

A Robo-Brain rolled towards him, shunting him to the side.

"PLEASE MOVE ALONG, SIR."

He paused, before turning to the machine and addressing it.

"Doctor Chris Willhelm, Vault 111 Security Council. Answer my questions, please."

"OF COURSE SIR."

The Doctor paused, wondering how to word it. He gazed around the room, studying the crying teenager in front of him. Then, he continued.

"How long have we been preserved for?"

"197 YEARS SIR. IT IS THE YEAR 2290."

The Doctor just stared.

Everything. Everything they had known and everyone they had cared for.

Was gone.

* * *

In darkness, he moved. Rain fell, and he pulled the collar of his coat upwards, the fend away the water dripping down his neck. He placed his hands inside the long coat, feeling the familiar butt of his gun at his fingers. He smiled then, and looked up at Scollay Square.

It had begun.


End file.
